Tomorrow Im off to meet my future motherinlaw. My married friends tried to calm me, but they practically scared the life out of me:
Keep your head high, nobody found you on a rubbish heap.
Dont let her step on your neck; sort everything out straight away.
Remember, good mothersinlaw are a myth.
Its you whos lucky to have her, not the other way round.
I lay awake all night, and by morning I looked fresh as a daisy in a coffin.
We met on the platform and boarded a twohour regional train. The ride took us through a sleepy market town after the border. The air was crisp, smelling of freshly lit bonfires and the promise of New Years cheer. Snow sparkled under the weak sun, crunching beneath our boots, while the tops of the pine trees whispered to each other. I was starting to feel the cold bite, when, just in time, a little village appeared on the horizon.
A tiny, wiry old lady in a patched wool coat, shearling boots, and a threadbare but clean kerchief greeted us at the gate. If she hadnt called out, I would have walked right past her.
Ellie, love, Im Agnes Hawthorne, Toms mother. Lovely to meet you, she said, pulling a knitted mitten from her lined palm and extending a firm, clasping hand. Her eyes, peeking from beneath the kerchief, were sharp and bright. We followed a narrow track between drifts to a cottage cobbled together from weatherworn logs. Inside, the hearth glowed redhot, spreading a comforting heat.
Eighty miles from Leeds and it felt like stepping back into the Middle Ages. The water came from a well, the toilet was a hole outside, the radio was a rarity, and the cottage was dimlit.
Mum, shall we switch the light on? Tom suggested. Mother gave a disapproving look.
Dont sit in the dark, love, or youll choke on your own spoon, she warned, then turned her gaze to me. Of course, dear, she said, reaching for the bulb hanging over the kitchen table. She twisted it in, and a weak glow illuminated about a metre around us.
Hungry, are we? Ive boiled some noodles; come on over and tuck in. We ate, eyeing each other, while she murmured gentle, round words, her stare both wary and keen. I felt as though she were dissecting my very soul. She darted about: chopping bread, shoving wood into the fire, then announced, Ill put the kettle on. Lets have tea. The kettle had a tiny lid with a little pinecone knob, a tiny hole for steam, and the tea itself was a berryinfused brew, sweetened with raspberry jam that would chase away any chill. No sickness here, not now, not ever. Help yourselves, dear guests, no charge at all
It was like being in a period film. I could hear the directors voice in my head:
Cut! Thanks, everyone.
The warmth, the hot food, the jamsweet tea made me feel like I could lie on a pillow for ages, but then a new order came down:
Alright, you lot, head to the shop and fetch a couple of stoneweight bags of flour. We need to bake pies for Varun and Graces families, plus Lucy from Leeds will be arriving with her future daughterinlaw. Ill fry the cabbage for the filling and boil some mash meanwhile.
While we were changing into our coats, Agnes hauled a cabbage from under the bed, began slicing it, and muttered, This cabbages getting a haircut, trimmed down to the core.
We walked through the village; everyone stopped, greeted us, men tipped their hats, bowed, and watched us go. The shop was in the next town, a short trek through the woods. Little fir trees and stumps wore white caps of snow. The sun played cheerfully on the frosted boulders as we went, and on the way back it cast a soft yellow glow. Winter days are brief, after all.
Back at the cottage, Agnes said,
Get busy, Ellie. Ill stomp the snow in the garden so the mice dont gnaw the bark off the trees. Tom, you help me fling snow onto the branches.
If I hadnt known the amount of flour wed need, Id never have bought so much, but Agnes kept urging,
No matter how big the task, start it and youll finish. The first part is hard, the end is sweet.
Left alone with a mountain of dough, I fumbled. One pastry was round, another long; one the size of a palm, another the length of a ruler. Some were stuffed to the brim, others barely so. One turned a deep brown, the other a golden blonde. I was exhausted! Later Tom whispered the truth: his mother was testing whether I was fit enough to become his wife.
Guests arrived in droves, all fairhaired and blueeyed, smiling like sunshine. I hid behind Tom, blushing.
A long table occupied the centre of the room, and I was ushered to a place of honour a bed piled with blankets and surrounded by children. The bed was like a fort; the kids leapt around, and I felt a touch of seasickness. Tom brought a big wooden chest, covered it with a quilt, and I perched on it like a queen on her throne, on full display.
I ate nothing but cabbage and fried onions, but I swallowed everything else, my ears ringing from the chatter.
Night fell. The future motherinlaws narrow bed stood by the stove, the others in the sitting room. The cottage is cramped, but better together, she said, pointing to a carved chest that had belonged to Toms father. She pulled out a freshlypressed linen set, stiff as a board, and spread it out.
Come on, the house is moving, the fire is roaring, and theres no room for the lady of the house! she joked, as future relatives sprawled on the floor on straw mattresses that had been hauled down from the loft.
I needed the toilet. I slipped out of the makeshift fort, feeling my way across the floor to avoid stepping on anyone, and reached the hallway. It was dark, and some furry creature brushed my feet. I jumped, thinking it was a rat, and shouted. Everyone laughed and said, Its only a kitten; it roamed around all day and decided to come home at night.
I headed for the privy with Tom; there was no door, just a partition. Tom stood with his back to me, lighting a match so the candle wouldnt tumble into the pit.
When I came back, I collapsed onto the bed and fell asleep. Fresh air drifted in, no car horns in earshot just the quiet of the village.
